


maybe life should be about more

by daisylincs



Series: Agents of Birthdays [13]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Agents of Birthdays, Alternate Universe - No SHIELD (Marvel), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Gift Fic, Happy Birthday Vi!!, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Skye | Daisy Johnson Feels, Skye | Daisy Johnson Needs a Hug, Skye | Daisy Johnson-centric, birthday fic, gay angst, skimmons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27858593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisylincs/pseuds/daisylincs
Summary: Skye has never had anyone who cared enough to look deeper, to see that she's just pretending everything is perfect. Then she meets Jemma Simmons.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Jemma Simmons/Skye | Daisy Johnson
Series: Agents of Birthdays [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886911
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	maybe life should be about more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadtunes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadtunes/gifts).



> Dear Vi, 
> 
> Happy birthday, my little angst monster!! 
> 
> First of all, let me apologise for how late this is, but, yeah, you’re completely right, things have been _super_ busy for me lately. And I’ve been going through a pretty nasty patch of writer’s block, too - but, apparently, Skimmons + angst is what gets me out of it!
> 
> Because yes, that’s exactly what this fic is - Skimmons, plus angst. I’m the mildly terrible person who hasn’t actually read all your fics yet (awful I know, but, um, that + nice comments can now be Part 2 of your birthday present??) But, going off of what I _do_ know, I think that’s a pretty winning combination for you. 
> 
> And, yeah, there’s a happy ending to this one, because I’m _me,_ and I _had_ to. But, yeah, there is a _lot_ of angst in the middle section (and the start, too, actually, lmao), which I really hope you’ll enjoy!!
> 
> Now to take a little trip back down memory lane, in my tried-and-true birthday-fic fashion: you and I first met, I do believe, through Kat and the Tumblr reblog family. Gotta love those guys, and how freaking crazy they are - yes Kat, that counts for you too, xD. No, but seriously, though, crazy or no: I’m _incredibly_ glad they put the two of us in contact, because, love, I just _adore_ talking to you when we can manage it what with timezone complications.
> 
> You’re smart, and sharp, and funny (and yes, angsty xD) but you’re also very sweet, and honestly a really, really _amazing_ person, who, to quote you some nice Skimmons here, I now cannot imagine my life without. I love you _so much,_ and I hope you have a positively _fantastic_ rest of your birthday!!!

Mary Sue was six years old the first time she experienced the sudden, shocked and disgusted silence. She was sitting on the cold, stone floor of St Agnes Church, "enjoying" their bi-monthly movie night. 

She didn't think anyone _enjoyed_ the movie nights. She was six, but she knew that the only reason the nuns even let them have the movie nights in the first place was to make the dark-suit men with their clipboards smile. 

"So kind," they'd say, smiling with empty eyes behind their glasses. "The children must be so happy." 

"Yes," said Sister Sora, who was the worst one. "They _enjoy_ it very much." 

She said it more like an order. 

It was cold, Mary Sue thought now. Too cold to _enjoy._

And there wasn't any popcorn. 

Sally from school had said they always had popcorn on movie nights, and blankets. 

Mary Sue had neither - just a tiny corner of uneven stone, which cut uncomfortably into her thin clothing as she hunkered down, instinctively staying out of the way of the bigger kids. 

But at least she had a movie. 

She watched mildly as the princess on screen swooned into the arms of the handsome prince she had just met - and everyone, including the princess's friends and family, clapped and cheered. 

"It's always a prince," Mary Sue murmured under her breath, turning half-confidingly to Jamie-from-Dorm-3 sitting next to her. 

Jamie laughed, his brown eyes bright. "Of course!" he said. "It's romantic." 

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Don't you agree?" 

"Hmm," Mary Sue replied noncommittally. 

Jamie nudged her with his bony knee, looking at her sideways. _"C'mon_ , Mary!" he cajoled. 

"I guess I just wonder why it can't be different," she admitted at last. "Why it has to… be a prince." 

Jamie snorted, his eyes saying, _this is a good game._ "Who else would you want it to be?" 

She chewed her lip, thinking. "I'm not sure," she said slowly, "but maybe… a princess?" 

The playfulness drained from Jamie's face, his eyes losing their cheery spark. "Wh-what?" he asked, quickly, as though hoping he hadn't heard her right. 

Mary Sue shrugged, feeling suddenly defensive and hoping to hide it. "It's nothing _much,_ really," she said. "I just want to know why it can't be a princess instead of a prince." 

Unfortunately for her, the movie's sound dipped slightly just as she finished that second part, and it came out a lot louder than she had intended. 

Instant silence fell - and not the good, surprised, Brother Jeremy visited with presents silence, but the cold, awful _you've made a serious mistake_ kind. 

_"Mary Sue,"_ Sister Sora's voice rang out, and she sounded angrier than Mary Sue had ever heard her before. Her mouth was pinched so tightly that it was barely recognizable, and her grip on Mary Sue's shoulder, when she leaned over to grasp it, was almost bruisingly hard. "Come. With. Me." 

She was unceremoniously pulled out of her corner and half-marched, half-dragged out of the church, up the pews, and to the confessional. 

_"Sit,"_ Sister Sora barked, her gaze dark. "And beg the Lord for His forgiveness." 

Mary Sue struggled to shake off the hand on her shoulder, which was still holding on to her, and holding so tightly that she was sure she would have marks in the morning.

Sister Sora tightened her grasp on Mary Sue's shoulder still more. _"Beg,"_ she hissed. "And apologise." 

Mary Sue learned a new word that day; _les-bi-an._

She also learned the phrase "that's wrong" - learned it over, and over, and over again, until her head was ringing and her ears were buzzing and her hand was cramping painfully from writing it out so many times. 

_That's wrong._

"And don't you ever forget it," Sister Sora ordered. 

Mary Sue didn't. 

//

The next time Mary Sue experienced The Silence, she was nine years old, and it was her birthday. 

It had been the best birthday she had ever had, so far - Mr and Mrs Brody had woken her up with choc chip pancakes, and given her a new backpack. It was the wrong colour - pink instead of purple - but Mary Sue still loved it with everything she had. 

She felt a word on her tongue as she thanked them, a word that she had never dared even think before - but a word that she thought Mrs Brody might like. 

She thought _she_ might like it too. 

So as Mrs Brody was picking her up from school that day, she said it for the first time, quiet and tentative and barely even noticeable - "thanks, Mom." 

Mrs Brody noticed, and her hands tightened on the wheel. With surprise, Mary Sue thought. 

Good surprise? She hoped. 

Then Mrs - _Mom -_ smiled, and Mary Sue's heart leapt. "It's a pleasure, sweetheart," she said simply. "How was your day?" 

Mary Sue told her about the colouring she had done in free period, and how she had gotten all the answers right on her maths test, because she knew Mr Brody was a math-e-matician, and he would like that. 

She didn't tell her how Sam Reese from Dalton Street had pushed her over in recess, taunting her that her birthday was just a sham anyway, she couldn't really celebrate. She couldn't really be one of _them._

As if Mary Sue didn't know that. 

All she said now, to Mrs Brody, was, "Sam Reese is such an annoying boy." 

Mrs Brody caught her eye in the rearview mirror, and Mary Sue thought there was a bit of an amused sparkle in her blue gaze. "So you don't like him at all?" she checked. 

Mary Sue shook her head emphatically. _"No._ He's horrible." 

Mrs Brody was still watching her with that half-amused, knowing look, and for some reason it made Mary Sue squirm. 

"And are there any boys in your grade that you _do_ like?" Mrs Brody pressed, and suddenly Mary Sue understood that little sparkle in her eye, that small smirk on her lips. 

Mrs Brody meant like, as in, _like-_ like. 

Well. 

Mary Sue thought about that, thought for a long, long moment. 

"I don't think so," she said at last. 

Mrs Brody opened her mouth, no doubt to say something like, _don't worry, your time will come -_ but Mary Sue continued, her brows drawing together. 

"Not one of the boys, anyway," she said. 

_That_ silence fell, thick and choking and _accusing._ Even the car, the brakes of which had been squealing loudly around every corner, were suddenly deathly quiet. 

"I see," Mrs Brody said then, in an entirely different tone of voice. 

Mary Sue swallowed hard, her throat feeling very, very dry. "Is…" she managed, then stopped, swallowing again. "Is everything… okay?"

Mrs Brody didn't reply, and Mary Sue added, feeling the hot prick of tears behind her lids, "Mom?" 

Her voice sounded small and thin in the oppressive silence of the car, and Mrs Brody… had tilted the rearview mirror so she could look Mary Sue directly in the eye. 

"I am not your mother," she told Mary Sue, simple and cold as ice. 

Then she turned down the next road, _right instead of left right instead of left rightinsteadofleft_ \- and on her ninth birthday, before the sun had even finished setting, Mary Sue was back in her tiny cot at St Agnes, sobbing under her tattered, too-thin grey blankets. 

Mrs Brody hadn't even looked back as she drove off. 

And she had taken the pink backpack with her. 

//

The third time, Mary Sue was thirteen, and she was reading a magazine in recess. 

She only had a few months of middle school left; and she had learned by now that she could keep her head down for the most part, smile when she needed to, and just wait for that time to pass. 

Nobody wanted to be friends with an orphan, anyway - so she would stop wanting them _to,_ as much as it hurt. It was just simpler that way. 

And it worked, for the most part. 

For the most part. 

"Whatcha got there, Poots?" came Janet Lee's voice, and she looked up to see the grade's new sweetheart standing in front of her, pretty in a pink sweater and practically _radiating_ niceness. 

Janet Lee was smiling, her brown eyes warm and encouraging, but Mary Sue's voice was nothing more than polite as she answered simply, "a magazine." 

Janet came over to sit next to her, and Mary Sue tried her hardest not to feel a flutter of hope in her chest. Janet was new here; and she didn't know _who_ Mary Sue was, yet. That was the _only reason_ she was being so nice. 

"Can I see?" Janet Lee prompted, and her voice sounded so sincere, so friendly…

Mary Sue couldn’t help it, the same way she couldn’t _help_ wishing each new home she went to would be the one. 

Because, after all, what if it _was?_ What if this time would be different? What if… And Janet Lee’s smile was so _nice,_ so encouraging and warm and lovely...

Mary Sue tilted the magazine so Janet could see, unconsciously opening up the defensiveness of her posture a little. 

Janet shifted closer, her shoulder bumping Mary Sue’s, and Mary Sue sucked in a sharp breath. _Don’t hope, don’t hope, don’t --_

"Ooh, look, it's about fashion and design!" Janet Lee cooed. She threw Mary Sue a slightly surprised look, nudging her shoulder. "I didn't know you liked that." 

Mary Sue didn't have the heart to explain that no, actually, she didn't like fashion - she just needed something to read to keep everyone's attention off her, and there were very limited options she could purchase with coins scraped together from the orphanage floor.

So she smiled at Janet Lee, and the other girl smiled back immediately, so warm and genuine that Mary Sue’s entire being leapt. 

She _was_ nice, she was so incredibly nice, and maybe this could be real -

"Look at _that,"_ Janet Lee said, her entire demeanor changing suddenly as she turned the page. Voice sharp with disgust, she pointed, "It's _two women."_

"What?" Mary Sue asked, the flutter in her chest simultaneously dying out with a whimper, and rising full force for a whole different reason. 

"Two women!" Janet Lee repeated, her voice getting louder after Mary Sue's assumed agreement. "Look here. It says, model and activist Skye speaks out about her new relationship, and discrimination she and her girlfriend Jade have faced…" 

Mary Sue scanned the page, the other girl's voice fading into background noise as she read line after line with a feverish speed. 

_That's wrong,_ she heard Sister Sora's voice in her mind, cold and clear as the church bell demanding they all get up at five. 

But here. _Here._ Here was someone, a celebrity no less, who was actively saying, _no,_ it _wasn't_ wrong. 

Mary Sue was vaguely aware of Janet Lee speaking, but she was too busy reading the article, her eyes blurring slightly and her breathing coming a little jaggedly. 

There wasn't something wrong with her. She wasn't broken. She wasn't the only one in the world who looked at boys and thought, but… 

_But._

Janet Lee was shaking her arm, and her nice brown eyes were cold as ice. "Mary Sue," she said, and it was almost a snarl. "You don't… _agree_ with her, do you?" 

"I…" Mary Sue stammered, still trying to gather her thoughts. 

That was enough of an answer for Janet Lee. Ripping her hand off Mary Sue's shoulder, she stood, her eyes flashing. 

She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. 

The awful silence said it all for her. 

It was only when Janet Lee was long gone that Mary Sue managed to find her voice. "I'm sorry," she whispered, then, louder, _"I'm sorry!"_

She had just wanted… she had just wanted to _feel_ that there wasn't something wrong with her. That she hadn't been born _defective_ just because she couldn't feel the moon-eyed things for boys everyone else seemed to, no matter how hard she tried - 

But maybe she _was_ defective.Maybe there _was_ something wrong with her. 

Everyone else thought so, anyway. 

But there _isn't,_ she thought with a sudden and intense flame of passion. _There isn't there isn't there isn't -_

Except, she remembered that _look_ in Janet Lee's eyes, that look that had squashed the tiny, fragile hope of friendship to shattered smithereens. 

She realised, then, with an awful sinking feeling, that she would have to choose. 

Their friendship, or their cold silence. 

It wasn't a choice. 

But as she lay in her bed that night, staring up at the grey ceiling and not even shivering, being used to the chill of the building and lack of blankets by now - she thought, she would call herself _Skye_ from now on. 

No-one would have to know why. 

But she was Skye. 

// 

The first time she _didn't_ experience the silence, she was fourteen, in her first year of high school, and waiting for the school bus before a trip. 

She didn't know anyone in her new school, but it didn't bother her. 

She wouldn't stay for long, anyway. 

There was another girl sitting next to her, short, with bobbed brown hair, nodding along to something on her iPod. 

A teacher was giving her a long and significant look, a hint of disapproval behind her brown eyes, and Skye took the hint. Before the teacher could come over, she nudged the girl's shoulder gently. 

"What are you listening to?" she asked, trying for a smile. 

The girl tugged out her earphones with an embarrassed grin. "Sorry, what?" 

"I asked what you're listening to?" Skye repeated. 

The girl nodded. "Oh, er, it's an audiobook, actually," she said. Her expression turned a little wistful. "Narrated by Chris Hemsworth. Oh, don't you think he's just the most handsome actor?" 

"Yeah, he's so dreamy," Skye agreed, and, looking delighted, the girl nodded. 

She smiled at her, and Skye smiled back. 

Something inside of her shrivelled up, but she smiled back. 

//

Skye _didn’t_ experience The Silence a single time through the next three years. 

It was because she got very good at that; at the _smiling._ At the pretending. At the acting like everything was perfect. 

Because, after all, wasn't it? 

She had people who would smile when they saw her, people who would say hi - and no-one who would stare at her with that cold, cold silence. 

And if she felt like she was dying inside, what did it _matter?_ She carried an activist's name, but she was no activist. She was nobody, and nobody really cared about her. 

So why should she care about herself? 

She could just keep pretending it was all perfect, the way everyone wanted her to. 

Nobody cared enough to look deeper. 

Then she met Jemma Simmons. 

_Jemma._ At sixteen, she was the same age as Skye, and brighter than anyone Skye had ever seen before. And not just intellectually - though, definitely that, too. 

No, but the moment Jemma walked into a room, it was like its very atmosphere lightened. Softened. Warmed. 

She was like a star, and Skye her hopeless orbiting planet, from the very first moment she walked into homeroom, a little shy and new, but still confident and so, so _bright._

And by some crazy stroke of luck and chance - 

“Poots,” the teacher called, tapping her clipboard, “you’re to show Miss Simmons around the school and teach her how things work here. Okay?”

“Okay,” Skye agreed faintly. 

Jemma latched onto the sound of her voice with all the relief of someone new to a place being given a guide, and Skye’s heart did an entirely-too-hopeful flutter in her chest. “Hi,” she said with a small, cautious smile.

Jemma smiled back immediately, and Skye’s brain short-circuited a little. _“Hello,”_ she said, and Skye’s expression transitioned into a full-on grin at her accent. 

“I’m Jemma, Jemma Simmons, though,” she continued, ducking her head wryly, “I suppose you already knew that.”

Skye took her hand and shook it nonetheless. “I’m Sk- I’m Mary Sue,” she said, wincing a little at the name on her tongue. “Mary Sue Poots.”

Jemma’s eyebrows lifted slightly at the hesitation, but she didn’t say anything about it, much to Skye’s relief. “Pleased to meet you, Mary Sue.”

“You can sit next to me if you’d like,” Skye said, nodding at the empty desk off to her left. (There were always empty desks next to her.) 

“Thanks, I’d like that,” Jemma said with a soft, easy smile. 

Skye’s heart fluttered again, and she tried to squash it down, _tried_ to remind herself how things like this never, _never_ ended well for her. 

She was like a pebble stuck the wrong way in a stream, completely out of place, completely _wrong._

And even though she pretended, submerged herself a little deeper below the metaphorical water… she could never really fit in. Never.

This was just proved for her when Brent, one of the popular guys in her class, turned around and caught Jemma’s eye, giving her a tiny shake of his head, as though saying, _not_ her, _you can do better._

Jemma’s eyebrows lifted again, and something cool and resolute filled her gaze. With deliberate slowness, she put down her bag and pulled out the seat next to Skye’s, sitting down with a firmness that was just _slightly_ exaggerated to prove her point.

Brent turned back around, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath - but Skye’s attention was fixed on Jemma.

Nobody had ever done _that_ before, least of all for _her._

Maybe… 

No. She couldn’t think it. She couldn’t let herself think it. 

Thinking it made it a hope, and once you _hoped…_ once you hoped, it hurt a thousand times more to inevitably _lose._

The image of a pink backpack floated into her mind, accompanied with the thought of a word she hadn’t so much as breathed ever since. 

_Don’t hope. Don’t let yourself hope._

But it was _hard,_ with Jemma. So hard.

Especially when, after lunch, Jemma, who had made a point of sitting next to her for the entirety of the meal, pulled her aside into one of the abandoned classrooms. It was small, and dank, and smelled of mushrooms, but it was still a more pleasant place than the orphanage Skye had called home more often than not.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Jemma began cautiously, and Skye had to bite her tongue to keep from immediately saying, _I could never._

Because she _should_ be able to get mad at Jemma. She should be able to get mad at her and push her away, so that she could be sure she wouldn’t get pushed away first.

_But._

“But I was wondering,” Jemma went on, chewing her lip as she met Skye’s gaze. “When you introduced yourself to me earlier, you… you almost said something else, first? Before Mary Sue?”

“And if you don’t want to tell me, that’s completely fine, of course,” she rushed to add. “But I was just thinking that if there’s something else you’d prefer to be called, but you can’t say it out to the teachers for some reason -”

Skye fought, and fought, but she couldn’t deny how touched she felt - touched that Jemma had noticed, and _remembered,_ and even that she was sharp enough to have guessed _why_ Skye had hesitated. 

“You can call me whatever you want,” she blurted before she could think about it, then winced, covering her eyes. What was _wrong_ with her? Just because Jemma hadn’t done anything that would hurt her _yet_ didn’t mean she _wouldn’t._

“I-I mean,” she stammered, feeling stupid and searching frantically for a way to recover, “Mary Sue Poots is my name, the… the name they gave me at the orphanage.”

 _“Ah,”_ Jemma said, her brown eyes filling with understanding. Skye closed her own eyes, waiting for the inevitable turn and echo of her footfalls walking away, but…

Silence.

Silence.

Silence, broken only by the soft sounds of her and Jemma’s breathing.

Slowly, slowly, she dared open her eyes again, and Jemma was still there, a compassionate expression on her face. 

For the first time in her life, Skye experienced a silence that _wasn’t_ cold, or judging, or accusative.

It was _sympathetic,_ sympathetic and… warm. 

_Tender,_ almost.

“My name is Skye,” she said before she could reconsider. “That is… the name I chose for myself, the name I call myself. It’s Skye.”

“Skye,” Jemma repeated, her gaze turning thoughtful. “It suits you.”

Skye half-laughed, a little incredulous. “It does?”

“Absolutely,” Jemma agreed, her expression still thoughtful. “And you know what…” To Skye’s complete surprise, her brown eyes filled with mischief, something downright _playful_ in the curve of her grin. 

When was the last time someone had looked _playfully_ at Skye? 

_“I_ think,” Jemma continued, her voice reflecting the same mischievousness that was visible in her eyes, “it suits you much, _much_ better than -” she paused, drew in a deep breath, then, putting her hands on her hips and an utterly ridiculous twisted scowl, she said in a dead-on impression of their vice-principal’s drawl, _“Maaaary Sue Pootttsss.”_

Skye laughed out loud, the sound bright, carefree, and completely, completely surprised, the sound ringing, vivid and clear, through the empty classroom.

Jemma laughed too, her eyes crinkling with smile lines, and before Skye had the time to process what was happening, she had stepped forward and linked their arms. 

“C’mon,” Jemma said, a hint of the laugh still audible in her voice. “Let’s get to class.”

She didn’t let go of Skye’s arm until they were right at their desks, and even then, she took the seat next to Skye, throwing her a wink as she sat down.

Skye couldn’t help it. She grinned. 

So maybe she _was_ an odd pebble, sticking out amongst the water flowing one way. 

But maybe, just maybe, all she had needed was a current turning in _just_ a little bit of a different direction, and, just like that, she settled into her place.

And maybe, just maybe, that current came in the form of bright-eyed British geniuses with smiles that could dazzle the whole room, and more compassion than Skye had ever seen in any one person.

Skye couldn’t help it. She _hoped._

// 

The next time Skye _didn’t_ experience the silence, and the time after that, and after that, and after that, and so on and so forth - those next times were all when she was sixteen, and with Jemma.

It was impossible to hate herself, or, well, _anything_ when Jemma was around, and try as she might, Skye couldn’t let go of the hope that bloomed in her chest.

If anything, it increased with every interaction she and Jemma had - like the first time she had gone to Jemma’s house for a lunch visit, and Jemma had made her laugh so loudly with a story about her crazy Uncle Stephen that Skye had snorted (healthily diluted) orange juice through her nose. (That, of course, had sent them both into hysterics for the rest of the afternoon.)

Or like the time she had managed to cajole Jemma into going paintballing with her, and Jemma, much to her utter dismay, had managed to shoot Professor Sitwell square in the chest. With _bright blue ink,_ too. (Jemma still cringed whenever she passed the civics class.)

 _Or,_ like the time she and Jemma had teamed up to prank the local mean boy Brent, filling up his locker with hot pink silly string filaments of Jemma’s own ingenious design that stuck to the unfortunate locker-opener for three days, and wouldn’t come off even when scrubbed. (Brent never whispered comments about Skye under his breath again.)

Or, of course, like all the times Jemma just _talked_ to her, barraging her with random facts and info about anything and everything under the sun - 

“Did you know that catalase is one of the fastest enzymes known?” Jemma chattered as she met up with Skye one morning. “It drives the biochemical reaction in which hydrogen peroxide is decomposed to water and oxygen, and it accelerates the rate of this reaction by up to a _million-fold.”_

Skye didn’t even understand half of what she had just been told, but it made her smile nonetheless. 

“That’s amazing,” she said, only she was more talking about Jemma’s smile than the catalase.

Then there were also those times when they talked until the wee hours of the night, as Jemma would put it - listening to each other's breathing in the dark when Skye came to sleep over, and telling each other things they'd never told anyone before. 

For example, Jemma told Skye about her scoliosis surgery, and how she had struggled with her self-image for years after that, and Skye reciprocated by admitting that she had never felt like she could fit in anywhere. 

Until Jemma. 

Because what they had was _special,_ and despite herself, Skye _hoped_ more with every passing day. 

_Maybe things will be good this once._

//

Skye was sixteen years old when she experienced a silence again, for the first and simultaneously the last time. 

It happened at Jemma's house, during one of their admit-too-much-get-so-much-closer sleepovers - when Jemma asked, in her kind but nonetheless blunt and straight-to-the-point way: "what do you think about… about lesbian people, Skye?" 

Skye felt the weight of the question like a tangible thing pressing down on her shoulders - a dead weight; the kind of weight that would end up hurting someone no matter where you dropped it. 

"I…," she began, and swallowed hard. She saw Sister Sora's face in her memory, the bony face pinched and furious, and felt the bruising grip on her shoulder like it was yesterday - 

_that'swrongthat'swrongthat'swrongthat'swrong -_

"That's wrong," Skye said, almost convulsively, forcing the words past her tongue - because _that was what Jemma needed to hear,_ wasn't it? 

That was what everyone needed to hear. That was what she needed to pretend. 

There was a sharp intake of breath from Jemma's side of the room, and then silence, complete and utter silence. 

And Skye knew that she had screwed up, worse than she had ever screwed anything up before. 

But she still saw Sister Sora's face, and when she spoke it was with Janet Lee's voice, _"you don't_ agree _with them, do you?"_

She didn't even realise she was crying until Jemma's voice sounded again, its tone entirely different now - "Skye? Are you okay?" 

"Of course I am," Skye assured her, sniffling and swiping fiercely at the tears on her cheeks. _Go away._

"You don't sound okay to me," Jemma said, and her voice was full of genuine concern as she stood up, walking over to Skye's bed in the dark. 

It creaked as she sat down, and for some reason that made Skye want to start sniffling again. 

_"Skye,"_ Jemma said, her voice incredibly tender. "You _don't_ really think that, do you?" 

Her hand found Skye's, and it was soft, and warm, and comforting, and _supportive,_ and if was just… it was way, way too much. 

Skye burst into tears, her whole body heaving with sobs that she hadn't even realised she had been holding in for weeks, months, _years._

"Of-of course I don't," she said through heavy tears. "B-but the nuns, they never let me, and I always needed to say it, to act like I believed it -" 

"That can't be right," Jemma said, and Skye realised with a start that she was crying softly, too. "Nobody should have to live their life like that!" 

"N-no, I _have to,"_ Skye protested desperately. "Because if I don't, everyone l-leaves. Always." 

"So you force yourself to say something you hate to make everyone else happy?" Jemma asked, her tears coming freely now. "You tear yourself into pieces so you -" 

"Aren't alone," Skye whispered. The tears were still flooding down her cheeks, and try as she might, she couldn't stop them. "I-I don't ever want to be alone. It's so c-cold." 

"But you can't live your life like this, it's _torture_ for you," Jemma said, and it was almost a plea through her tears. 

Skye laughed harshly through hers. "Maybe that's what I deserve." 

Jemma was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke, it was with more fury than Skye had ever even imagined she could be capable of. 

"How _dare_ you say that?" she asked, and in the moonlight coming through the window, Skye could see the tears crystallise in her gaze. "How _dare_ you?" 

"Because I'm broken," Skye said, closing her eyes and feeling more tears leak through the lids. "I'm _wrong."_

"You _just_ said you've never agreed with that," Jemma pointed out, her voice still steely with that uncharacteristic fury. 

Skye opened her eyes, chuckling bitterly through a renewed flood of tears. "That just shows how broken I am then, doesn't it?" she asked. "I can't even hold to one thing without screwing it up somehow." 

Jemma took her by the shoulders and _shook._ "You are _not_ broken, Skye. You're _not_ wrong. You're… you're the most amazing person I've ever met."

Skye's breath caught - but Jemma wasn't finished. 

"And you deserve _more_ in life than this," she continued fiercely. "Life should be _more_ than this. You deserve to say, and feel, and believe what makes _you_ happy." 

"But I can't," Skye whispered, so quietly that she almost thought Jemma didn't hear. "Otherwise everyone would go, everyone would leave -"

 _"I'm not going anywhere,"_ Jemma said, and her tone was _ferocious_ , like she wanted to _make_ Skye believe her if it was the last thing she did. 

And Skye… 

Skye wanted to believe her, wanted it more than anything else in the world. 

_But…_

"Why?" she asked quietly through the last gasps and stutters for breath. 

Even in the dim moonlight, Skye saw Jemma's eyes flash. "Because you _deserve_ it," she said, simple and fierce. 

Skye exhaled, long and slow. "You really think so?" 

"I _know_ so," Jemma promised. "Because, Skye, you are _beautiful,_ every part of you. And you deserve to know that. You deserve to see that not everyone in life is like… is like Sister Sora, and that who you are is something you, and other people too, can _love,_ and be proud of." 

She took a breath, and Skye was surprised to see the shine of tears in her eyes. "You deserve it _all,"_ she said. "And I think I know where we can start. Skye - do you want to go to Pride with me?" 

For the third time that night, there was utter silence in the room - and then Skye launched herself at Jemma, nearly tackling her off the bed as she threw her arms around her. 

"You too?" she asked, and she was crying again, unashamedly crying into Jemma's soft pyjama shirt. 

But Jemma was crying, too, hugging Skye a little closer to her. "Me too," she said, and sniffled into Skye's hair. "And that makes us _beautiful,_ Skye, not broken or defective or wrong." 

"You're beautiful," Skye said, sobbing. 

"So are you," Jemma said, crying just as hard. "You're so beautiful, Skye." 

Skye turned her head so it was buried in the crook of Jemma's shoulder, and Jemma reciprocated by leaning her cheek against Skye's head. 

They stayed like that for a long time, hugging and crying, close together on Skye's bed, until, eventually, Skye managed to remember Jemma's original question.

"I'd love to go to Pride with you, Jem," she said, and then she was crying again, and they were hugging, and crying, and hugging, and crying, and _hugging._

And sitting there, Jemma Simmons in her arms and tears on her cheeks and soaked into her sweatshirt, Skye felt as though the weight of an entire world had been lifted off her shoulders. 

She heard Jemma's voice again, playing over and over and over in her head. _We're beautiful._

Beautiful. _We're beautiful._

And Skye believed it. She really and truly believed it. 

How could she not? It was _Jemma._

Sniffling, she pulled Jemma even closer, rocking back and forth as she held her tight. 

She was free. 

_Beautiful._

//

Skye was sixteen when she attended her first Pride, her hand clasped tightly in Jemma Simmons's, and her eyes as wide as saucers as she looked around her. 

She painted a rainbow flag on her cheek, and wrapped a matching flag around her torso and Jemma's - and when the parade was at its absolute highest, flags of all colour raised all around them and proud, strident voices mingling together in the crisp air - Skye leaned over and kissed Jemma. 

Jemma kissed her back immediately, and there was laughter, cheering and applause all around - and not a shred of silence.

 _And that’s,_ Skye thought, _that’s..._ right. 

**The End.**


End file.
